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"I think pardon me that if our positions were reversed, and I saw in you the sincere desire to help that I have, I'd take it in the right way." Again Marsden looked suspiciously at him. "To help? How to help?" he demanded "That's what I should like you to tell me. "Oh, my work!" Marsden made a little gesture of contempt. "Try again, Romarin."
Marsden, who had tucked his napkin between two of the buttons of his frayed waistcoat, looked suspiciously across the glass with the dregs of the gin and bitters that he had half raised to his lips. "Eh?" he said. "I say, Romarin, don't let's go grave-digging among memories merely for the sake of making conversation. Yours may be pleasant, but I'm not in the habit of wasting much time over mine.
It completed the taking back of Romarin that the chiming of the clock, the doorknocker, the grouping of the chimney-stack and the crack in the flagstone had begun. "Well, my distinguished Academician, my " Marsden's voice sounded across the group of scene-shifters... "'Alf a mo, if you please, guv'nor," said another voice... For a moment the painted "wing" shut them off from one another.
She's mad!" The street had not changed so much but that, little by little, its influence had come over Romarin again; and as the clock a street or two away had struck seven he had stood, his hands folded on his stick, first curious, then expectant, and finally, as the sound had died away, oddly satisfied in his memory.
His unholy curiosity had spared nothing, his unnatural appetite had known no truth. It was grinning sin. The details of it simply cannot be told.... And his vanity in it all was prodigious. Romarin was pale as he listened. What!
The shape of a doorknocker, the grouping of an old chimney-stack, the crack, still there, in a flagstone somewhere deep in the past these things had associations; but they lay very deep, and the disturbing of them gave Romarin a curious, desolate feeling, as of returning to things he had long out-grown.
Forty-eight hours only were spent in this idyllic spot before we returned to Romarin to the accompaniment of the roar of mines, artillery, and concentrated rifle fire and machine gun fire, which heralded the sudden outbreak of the Battle of Hill 60, 4 miles to the north, just before sunset on April 17th.
This was not what Romarin had hoped for. He had desired to be reconciled with Marsden, not merely to be allowed to pay for his dinner. Yet if Marsden did not wish to talk it was difficult not to defer to his wish. It was true that he had asked if Marsden was still a Romanticist largely for the sake of something to say; but Marsden's prompt pointing out of this was not encouraging.
They sat down at a corner table not far from the slowly moving four-bladed propeller. "Now we can talk," Romarin said. "I'm glad, glad to see you again, Marsden." It was a peculiarly vicious face that he saw, corrugated about the brows, and with stiff iron-grey hair untrimmed about the ears.
And you usually get what you set out for. Oh yes. I've watched your rise I've made a point of watching it. It's been a bit at a time, but you've got there. You're that sort. It's on your forehead your destiny." Romarin smiled. "Hallo, that's new, isn't it?" he said. "It wasn't your habit to talk much about destiny, if I remember rightly.
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